


Rescue

by Sholio



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Drugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-22
Updated: 2011-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-19 17:11:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the HL Kinkmeme - Methos has to deal with a drugged Duncan. Established relationship. Full prompt in notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> Full prompt from HL_kink: "Duncan falls prey to a splinter group of the Watchers who are determined to figure out how to duplicate immortality. They drug him with something powerful enough to affect him for several hours. Methos rescues him, then has to cope with a handsy, grateful Duncan who has no filters and no defenses."

The house was a rambling chateau, miles from anything that could be dignified with the term _town._ It looked abandoned at first glance, until one noticed the brand-new SUV in the weed-choked drive, or the way that the foliage had been trimmed back from some of the windows. Despite the current occupants' half-assed attempts at giving themselves some sightlines, it was a breeze to sneak up on the place. They were obviously going for concealment over defensibility.

Methos had been casing the house for several hours; he was nothing if not thorough, and by now he was pretty sure there were only two mortals in there, plus Duncan. He was only getting the one Immortal buzz from the place, and it occasionally faded in and out, which said more than he wanted to know about the sort of treatment Duncan was receiving. On the other hand, rushing in without proper intelligence and getting himself beheaded (or tranked and tossed into a cell with Duncan) would just be embarrassing.

Once darkness fell, though, he moved fast. There were no lights visible on the road side of the house, but around back, he quickly homed in on a strip of light gleaming through a badly closed shutter. It was the work of a few minutes to pick the lock on a side door, probably used by servants in past decades, and he made his way quietly through the house by feel.

The lit room was the manor's kitchen. Two men had just sat down to a dinner of takeout, and Methos didn't bother with niceties or questioning, just shot both of them from the kitchen door. The first died facedown in his food; the second had time to reach under his jacket before he fell off his chair onto the flagstone floor. Methos double-checked their wrists to confirm what he already knew: more rogue Watchers. Nice.

Well, Joe could handle the clean-up. Methos had other priorities.

He wasn't sure where in the house Duncan was being held, but since there were only two guards to keep an eye on him, he guessed it wouldn't be far. The wine cellar was the obvious place -- bad guys were as predictable as good guys when it came right down to it, really. He took the precaution of reloading before flicking on the light and venturing down into the cellar's cool, dusty depths. "MacLeod?"

A groan and some incoherent mumbling answered him from somewhere below. Though heartened -- for Immortals, there were just two physical states to speak of: "alive and going to be fine" and "dead", and clearly MacLeod fell into the former category -- he still took the steps with caution, because he hadn't lived 5000 years just to get coshed in the middle of a rescue. The wine cellar was low-ceilinged and long, with a couple of naked light bulbs illuminating a labyrinth of dusty, mostly-empty wine racks.

"Sing out, MacLeod. Give me some help here. I'm not a rescue dog."

Eventually Duncan's not-exactly-helpful mumbling led him to a set of incongruously modern-looking steel bars at the far end of the wine cellar. Duncan was slumped against the bars, his shirt stained with dried blood and punctuated with bullet holes. "You've certainly looked better," Methos remarked, kneeling on the floor and cupping Duncan's chin in his palm. Duncan's pupils were blown out to black pools, and Duncan nuzzled into his palm. Yep. Drugged. "I'm going to need keys, aren't I?"

"You're pretty," Duncan said.

"I suppose that's a yes." Methos brushed the tip of Duncan's nose with his thumb, and leaned in to kiss him quickly -- Duncan tasted ... not that great, actually, but that wasn't surprising given the fact that he'd been locked up for almost twenty-four hours and subject to the gods only knew what in the meantime. On that note, Methos headed upstairs to search the dead men for keys.

Five minutes later, he was attempting to wrestle a rubber-kneed Duncan up the stairs.

"Some help would be appreciated, Mac."

"No legs," Duncan said, draping himself over Methos's shoulder like a really, really heavy dishrag.

"You do certainly have legs. Not that one could tell from the way you're using them at the moment."

"I think I'm high," Duncan said, nuzzling into Methos's hair.

"No, really? I hadn't noticed."

"My hero," Duncan mumbled, kissing his ear.

"I know, and I expect proper gratitude later, when you have more than five functional brain cells. Do keep walking." A little shiver raced down Methos's neck as the nibbling went lower. Then Duncan apparently forgot what he was doing and became fascinated with staring at the cable knit on the shoulder of Methos's sweater. Probably for the best, all things considered. Methos was not entirely sure where the limits were in this weird and unexpected and oddly satisfying relationship, but he was pretty sure that turning a drugged Duncan across the kitchen table and having his way with him would violate a number of unspoken rules of trust -- within the bedroom and outside it -- that they'd spent years painfully working out. So. None of that, then.

He lugged a semi-cooperative Duncan through the kitchen -- "Hey, those guys are _dead_." "Thank you for the observation, Lois Lane." -- and through the chateau's grand foyer onto the overgrown lawn. At this point he realized that his car was parked a mile down the road, decided that grand theft auto wasn't especially a problem when tacked on top of murder one, and dumped Duncan onto the lawn. "Stay here."

"The world is spinning," Duncan observed, flopping bonelessly onto his back on the lawn. "Because it's round, and so it spins." He raised a finger. "They proved that, you know."

"What the hell did they _give_ you? Shouldn't it have worn off by now?"

He found the keys to the SUV in one of the dead guys' pockets. While he was at it, he confiscated a laptop sitting on the countertop, and used a rag from the sink to wipe down anything he might have touched. No sense giving anyone ideas. He'd give the laptop to Joe later. Maybe.

During the few minutes he'd been gone, Duncan had made it all the way to the edge of the trees and then gone facedown in a patch of winter-dead flowers. Methos hoped he'd managed to suffocate himself; that would make the drive home more peaceful, or at least some of it. But no such luck.

"I thought I dreamed you," Duncan slurred quietly as Methos levered him upright.

"Tragically, no, I hate to break it to you. Kindly let us keep moving, that's a good boy."

"It wasn't a bad dream," Duncan sighed into his neck. "It was a good dream."

That shouldn't have made his heart a little warmer, it really shouldn't. For one thing, MacLeod was clearly higher than a kite and would probably be talking about floating rainbow-colored fishes next. "Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment, but I'm not entirely sure those guys don't have buddies, and I'd rather not meet them on the road."

"They hurt me," Duncan said. Methos sighed and tucked him tighter against his side.

"I know, MacLeod. Fortunately I've killed them, so it won't be happening again."

"I don't think they meant to."

"Oh, I'm ... pretty sure they did, actually."

He contemplated for all of five seconds trying to get Duncan into the passenger's seat of the SUV and then manhandled him into the back. Duncan went like a sack of wet laundry, folding himself up against the door. Methos transfered them both to his own car at the side road where he'd hidden it, and parked the SUV in the ditch. Another little wipedown of exposed surfaces ensured that -- hopefully -- no inconvenient authorities would be paying him a visit.

Taking Duncan back to the barge wasn't really an option at the moment, because that was where this particular splinter group of Watchers snatched him from. Methos wasn't 100% sure that they didn't know about his flat, but he was pretty sure that he'd managed to keep its current location secret from the Watchers for the time being. The relationship, not so much, but one couldn't guard oneself 24/7. (Well, yes. One could. That way did lie a certain amount of madness, though.)

But the flat was not exactly neutral territory: he'd yet to bring Duncan here in the context of --

\-- _boyfriend_ \--

\-- person with whom one might be, at present, sharing a bed. There had been a few evenings with friends, namely Joe and Amanda, and one really _interesting_ night with Amanda after she'd promised to teach them how to mix a new drink that she had invented (note to self: being hit in the head with a sledgehammer is preferable; further note to self: investigate Amanda+Duncan-related possibilities when not so sloshed that his only recollections of the evening involved Joe getting sick on the sitting-room rug). Anyway, for the most part, when he wanted to see Duncan, hang out with Duncan, or sleep with Duncan, he went to the barge. In the flat, he spent his time quietly writing in his journals or working on various research projects. The flat was _his_ space.

And now, here he was with one drugged Highlander. The flat had the advantage of a secure underground parking garage, which was one of the reasons he'd chosen it. As well as being quite useful when one might suspect one was being followed, it made it easier to drag a thoroughly stoned, 6'2" man up to his flat with no neighbors being the wiser. He'd hoped that the drugging would have worn off by now, but as usual, the universe hated him.

"I don't feel well," Duncan mumbled.

"If you're going to be ill, do it outside the -- oh, _thank_ you, MacLeod. I do appreciate that."

"Sorry."

"I hope you realize you just torpedoed your chances of getting lucky tonight, even if my standards didn't include no children, no goats, and no one under the influence of enough tranquilizers to drop a herd of African elephants."

Since Duncan was still crusted in dried blood and dirt, not to mention smelling like a French wine cellar, Methos dumped him in the shower and went to call Joe.

"You found him."

"Found him, got him. He's safe at my place. You may have a bit of a situation to clean up, however, related to a certain top-secret organisation, if you catch my drift."

"Not again," Joe groaned. "Is Mac all right?"

"For certain values of all right." There was a crash from the loo. "Great. Gotta go, Joe, sorry."

"I have a flight leaving from Seacouver International tonight." Joe had been threatening to hop on the next plane to Paris since Duncan had gone missing. Apparently he'd decided to make good on the threat.

"Fine, whatever. Never heard of delegation, did you?" Another crash. "Email me your flight info and I'll pick you up at the airport."

"Methos, is --"

"Gotta go, bye."

Duncan had managed to knock over every free-standing bottle of shampoo and other toiletry item in the vicinity, along with a bunch of copies of _Archaeology Today_ that Methos kept around as toilet reading material. Also, there was water everywhere. Methos hauled him into a more-or-less sitting position on the edge of the tub and started stripping off his wet clothing -- he'd thrown Duncan into the shower clothes and all.

"This isn't fun anymore," Duncan mumbled, wet chin resting on Methos's shoulder.

"Sorry? Someone was having fun?" Methos grabbed a towel and started scrubbing him with it.

Duncan didn't answer, just leaned against him. Naked and damp, and, presumably, finally starting to crash, he was shivering.

"You're such a pain in my arse, MacLeod." He ran a hand through Duncan's damp hair, growing out into a loose tangle. Duncan leaned into his hand, a gesture of casual trust that made something deep in Methos knot up.

He didn't bother trying to dress Duncan, just bundled him into the flat's single large bed. It was intended just for himself: Methos was a sleep-sprawler. But it was also, as things turned out, conveniently sized for accommodating another person. For all he knew, this might have been tested during the Amanda-Related Incident of Terrible Hangovers, but he didn't remember that bit, no matter what Joe and Amanda both claimed.

Duncan was shivering hard by now. Methos shed his own clothing -- well, most of it; he trusted his own self-control but not enough to tempt fate past the boxer level -- and bundled them both under his warmest duvet.

"Methos," Duncan mumbled into his neck, teeth chattering.

"That would be my name, yes."

"You came for me."

"I did, indeed." Methos spread a hand flat across Duncan's back, felt the muscles flexing as Duncan shook against him. Methos pressed his lips lightly to the crown of Duncan's damp head. "And you owe me one. Now would you kindly sleep, or die, or whatever it is that you need to do in order to metabolize this remarkably persistent drug out of your system."

Duncan laughed softly against the pulse point in his throat, and slowly he went limp, one major muscle group at a time. Methos carded his fingers through Duncan's thick hair until he could feel Duncan's chest relaxing into a slow rhythm of deep, even breaths.

"Pain," he murmured into Duncan's hair, the words slowing with the pace of Duncan's sleeping breaths. "In my _arse,_ Highlander."


End file.
